


Sentiment

by Luna218



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, BAMF John, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Insecure Sherlock, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Oral Sex, post-shag cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 13:01:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4667480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna218/pseuds/Luna218
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock returns to London and John, he assumes that life will go on as he left it before the fall. Unfortunately, John has moved on and Sherlock now needs to decide - does he fight to get his best friend back or will he just play it safe and hide his true feelings forever?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Where had it all gone so terribly wrong?

**Author's Note:**

> I chose to write this story as a kind of therapy because I was put in a situation similar to Sherlock's not all that long ago. Unfortunately, I won't get my happy ending, so it was of paramount importance to me that the boys get theirs.
> 
> This is my first ever johnlock fic and I have been spending a lot of time and energy on it, so please be gentle when offering criticism it. First and foremost, I hope you will enjoy it.
> 
> I would like to thank my lovely Michelle, the very best and most encouraging beta, for all her support and awesomeness.

Where had it all gone so terribly wrong? Of course, Mycroft, the insufferable know-it-all had tried to warn him and he had chosen not to listen. Stupid. Naive. Painful.

Painful?

Sherlock winced as he cautiously ran his thumb and forefinger across his broken nose. Yes, definitely painful.

But it wasn’t just the nose, was it? He replayed the course of the entire evening again, first pausing at the image of John fidgeting with the small velvet box. There had been no doubt. Whomever he was with, John had been planning to propose to them. The inexplicable stinging sensation Sherlock had felt in that moment returned to his chest now, impossibly stronger still.

Sherlock shook his head as if to chase away the memory - and came to stop just at the second of John finally looking him in the eye and recognising him. By then, he had come up with an estimate of about 23 different scenarios as to how John would react to his return.

They all fell short to what he really saw in John’s face in that moment. At first there had been shock, which gave way to the agony of being betrayed about such a significant matter as the death of a friend. A bit not good, that. He knew now. Surely John would understand?

It turned out he hadn't. Sherlock’s admittedly very poor attempt at humour had not gone over as well as he’d hoped and they had ended up on the restaurant floor, John on top of him, for all intents and purposes trying to ensure he was being killed properly this time.

Sherlock’s eyes widened at the memory. He’d been afraid. Afraid of John Watson? Impossible. He knew quite well that John had always managed to hide the more terrifying parts of his personality under the convincing disguise of cozy jumpers and a medical profession. But Sherlock had witnessed that secret side of him many times; had always marveled at how efficiently John could defeat opponents twice his size in a fight. John really was ridiculously small. Sherlock caught himself smiling and allowed the fondness for his flatmate - former flatmate, he reminded himself - to stay for a moment before he shook his head again.

When Sherlock had told John that he needed his help on a case, the other man had snapped completely, efficiently breaking the detective’s nose with his forehead and storming off to call a cab. Mary - why had he so easily remembered the name of that one? - had stood by his side and promised to talk to John. Strange. Unusual. Interesting.

He’d been walking back to Baker Street, head spinning, and not just from the reason why he had a tissue sticking up his nose. Taking care of the crusted blood on his face in front of the bathroom mirror, he felt another sharp pang in his chest. John used to take care of that. After investigations gone wrong, John would strip him down, examine his wounds and stitch him up if necessary. John wouldn’t take care of him now. John was the reason he was hurting in the first place. How had it all gone so wrong?

Sherlock was absolutely certain that John had missed working with him when he was… gone. Living a quiet life in the outskirts of London, garden in front of the house - that might have satisfied the ordinary, boring side of John Watson. The soldier in him, definitely not so much. So why had he turned Sherlock’s offer down?

The detective buried his hands in his hair and pulled hard, groaning in both pain and frustration. Human. Nature. Insufferable. Hateful. John.

Confused at the sudden reappearance of the doctor’s name, Sherlock got up and paced the flat. Two years he’d been away. Two years of living in fear that he might not be able to take down Moriarty’s network. Two years away from home to protect the ones he’d loved.

 

_Love, Sherlock?_

_How human of you! Adorable!_

_Don’t you know that you need a heart to love?_

_Do you have a heart?_

And the voices in his head would start to snicker, growing to full-fledged mocking laughter, as he bent in on himself.

 

_Freak!_

_Psychopath!_

_Piss off, you twat!_

_Nobody wants you._

_Even your precious John found himself a new companion._

_Caring, Sherlock. Not an advantage._

 

Sherlock barely made it to the couch and collapsed there before the voices in his head had reached their full force. He curled himself into a ball on it, groaning in pain as he wrapped his dressing gown around his shaking form, repeating but one word in his mind over and over again like a mantra:

 

_John._

_John._

_John._


	2. How to win back a friend

Sherlock sat on the couch, knees drawn close to his torso, as he tried to come up with a way to text John without letting on the emotional turmoil that was going on inside of him. It was much harder than he was willing to admit. He’d gone through various versions of “John? I’m sorry” and “John, I know I’ve made a mistake” already. By the time he had typed out “John, I need you to forgive me,” he was so frustrated that he could barely stop himself from smashing his phone on the opposite wall. He was going to ask John for forgiveness and didn’t even know what he had done wrong. He was starting to display the very signs of sentimentality that he himself loathed in other people. Tedious.

Shaking his head quite violently, he finally decided on a simple message that would hopefully get John’s attention.

**John, I need to talk to you. If convenient, come by. SH**

Remembering one of John’s lessons on politeness, he sent another message shortly after.

**Please. SH**

Sherlock dragged his body from the couch to his bedroom and threw himself on top of the covers of his bed. The couch had seemed like an okay place to deal with his panic attack last night and, quite surprisingly, he had even fallen asleep there. This morning, however, after getting up to relieve himself and giving his mouth a quick rinse, it looked decidedly less inviting.

The detective had paced around his flat once more while trying to compose a text to John and now that he’d finally sent it, he felt like he needed to lie down again. Images of John’s face appeared in front of him. Old memories slipping in with the ones from last night.

 

John, handing him his phone so willingly during their first meeting in the lab at St Barts.

John, calling him amazing - so many times.

John, smiling brightly at him over the corpse of a recently murdered investment banker.

John… groaning in pain and trying to control his anger.

John, above him, his hands at Sherlock’s throat.

 

The detective brought his fingers close and traced the skin where John had tried to strangle him. He had tried to delete it but found he couldn’t. He needed John, that much he knew. The reason why was a whole other matter.

By the time Sherlock came to again, the day had already progressed well into the evening and John had neither responded to his texts nor shown up at the flat. He dismissed the idea of sending another round of possibly embarrassing texts and decided to do some research.

“John, I need your laptop!”

He dragged his flat hand across his face and groaned as he realised his mistake. God, this was unacceptable. He needed to find a solution. Yesterday, at best.

 

* * *

 

Mrs Hudson hardly ever bothered announcing her entry into 221B and Sherlock could never really bring himself to care. He’d recognise her careful steps on the stairs, and make sure he was _decent_ , as she’d call it. Today was different; he hadn’t even heard her coming up. Looking at her from his spot in his armchair, he muttered something close to a greeting and returned his gaze to the screen of his laptop.

How to make your friend forgive you for faking your death

How to convince your friend you’re not a complete arse

How to make your flatmate move back in

 

Nothing remotely helpful.

 

How to (...) win back your friend

 

Aha.

For one, he found it astonishing enough that he even got results. Did people generally care that much? Boring.

Words like honesty, patience and trust imposed themselves on him and he cringed.

“Sherlock, the mess you’ve made! And look at you! When’s the last time you showered?” his landlady shrieked and sniffed the air as if he smelled absolutely disgusting. He turned his nose a little closer to his armpits to...ah, he really needed a shower.

“Is there tea? No! So what do you want?” he snapped at her.

“Still not your housekeeper, young man!” she scolded him as she sat down on the couch. She didn’t dare to sit in the armchair across from Sherlock. It was John’s after all. John, who had visited her only recently and for the first time in those two years. He’d talked about moving on and she had wondered if the doctor had really never had any feelings for the madman they had all believed to be dead.

“How many times, Mrs Hudson,” he’d shouted at her really quite loudly, “I am not gay!”

Following this outburst, she had decided to keep remarks about her eyesight still being perfectly functional despite her age to herself.

She remembered it now, sitting there and looking at Sherlock, who seemed lost on his own. Ever since John had come into the detective’s life, the man had flourished like she’d never thought possible. Sure, he tended to take his anger out on her walls but apart from that, Sherlock ate, slept, kept the noise of his experiments down most of the time. He was, generally, easier to be around. Now, though, she started to observe the first consequences of Sherlock being left to his own care. Untidy, snappish, impossibly thin.

When the subject of her observations still continued to ignore her after five minutes of her sitting on the couch, Mrs Hudson got up, brushed the creases out of her skirt and made to leave the flat. She turned to Sherlock again once she’d reached the door, asking him to at least clean himself up a bit and eat. Then she closed the door softly behind her, went down to her own flat and straight to her living room, where she picked up the phone. Things really could not go on like this.


	3. We're not made for sentiment

When Sherlock left the bathroom after letting himself soak in the hot tub for a good half hour, he was greeted by a rather undignified yelp of _Oh God, Sherlock! Put some clothes on!_

“Hello, Mycroft.” He inclined his head towards his brother and turned around to subject him to a full view of his nude form. He had never been self-conscious about his body; Mycroft on the other hand... Sherlock revelled in his brother’s discomfort.

“You find yourself, as I’m sure hasn’t escaped your observation, in my flat. A flat in which I am living by myself. I believe it is entirely my decision what to wear or not.”

“Ah, yes. By yourself,” Mycroft grinned triumphantly and rested his chin on the fingers of his entwined hands. “The reunion wasn’t as successful as you’d hoped, I take it?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned, turning towards his bedroom to get dressed. He wasn’t going to survive the speech he knew was going to come without the comfort of his favourite dressing gown wrapped around his shoulders. The blue fabric reminded him of John’s eyes.

When he went to face the inevitable, Mycroft had helped himself to a cup of tea and some biscuits Sherlock wasn’t even aware he’d had. His stomach rumbled.

“Hungry, brother mine?” Mycroft smiled at him unpleasantly. “It seems like having to look after yourself is not agreeing with you, now that you’re back in London.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock snarled.

“Oh yes, I’m sure of it. That must also be the reason why your landlady chose to call our dear Dr Watson about an hour ago. She seems to live under the impression that your current _mood_ is caused by his absence from this flat and looking at you now, although it pains me a great deal to admit it, I rather think she’s right.”

Sherlock had used the time during his brother’s monologue to fold himself into his armchair, fully prepared to sulk through the whole ordeal.

“Don’t you have a country to run? Leave me alone, brother.”

“Well, certainly not, _brother_. The country you’re referring to needs your services as much as mine, and I can’t have you moping about in your flat like a love-sick puppy!”

Sherlock flinched at his brother’s rising voice and started to shuffle around in the armchair, so he could turn his back on him. Of course Mycroft wouldn’t allow him that. Bracing himself on the backrest of Sherlock’s armchair and holding onto his younger brother’s shoulder, he hovered over Sherlock like a leopard waiting for the right moment to pounce.

“When will you ever stop being childish, Sherlock! I told you from the very beginning that it’s best not to grow attached. We are not like them, you and I. Ordinary people simply cannot keep up with us, so they are bound to leave sooner or later. That idea you have in your head, of John coming back to you, is absolutely ridiculous!”

At that he stepped back from Sherlock, who had struggled to sit up.

“And what makes you so sure about that?” the younger man asked, challenging him.

“For one thing, John has the intention to marry. A woman, I might add. He has done the one thing you should have done years ago - he moved on. You might not believe me when I say this, but it pains me to see you like this. He will not return, Sherlock. He told Mrs Hudson as much over the phone. Caring, Sherlock, is not an advantage. Do not lose yourself in things you cannot comprehend. You and I, we’re not made for _sentiment_.”

Sherlock stared at his brother, wide-eyed, furious, hurt. Worst of all was that Mycroft had been right. Navigating the complex landscape of human emotion was entirely new to him; he barely understood what his own feelings meant, much less those of someone else, which was one of the reasons why it had been so hard for him to understand John’s reaction to his return from the dead. He had gathered by now that John felt betrayed, grieving for a friend he had never truly lost. John didn’t know what Sherlock had endured in these two years and the detective was convinced that John would never be interested enough to find out. Mrs Hudson had called for him to come and he had refused.

Sherlock snapped his mouth shut, noticing only that it had been hanging open once he steered his mind back to the present. Mycroft, he was relieved to find, had showed himself out and was just walking out the front door.

Quiet. Alone. Finally.

John.

 

* * *

 

“Ah, if it isn’t the good doctor! Changed your mind, then?” Mycroft said, grinning.

“Hello Mycroft. What a surprise.. Changed my? How do you even? Ah, never mind.” John muttered, dismissing the older Holmes brother as he walked past him to his old flat.

Mycroft called after him and even though John refused to let the mind games get to him, the words of the elder Holmes brother resonated in his head.

_Take him back or leave him forever. If you do not wish to destroy him, there is no in-between, Dr Watson._


	4. Leave me alone

Steps on the stairs. 

Too light for Mycroft, the fat bastard. 

Too heavy and controlled to belong to Mrs Hudson. 

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. 

 

John.

 

Sherlock scrambled to sit up properly, running his fingers through his hair in a frantic attempt to look at least a bit presentable. The door opened and there he was. John. Sherlock’s heart jumped and he was torn between embracing his friend and running.

“Hey...uhm...mate,” John greeted him awkwardly. This wasn’t right. Sherlock tensed immediately.

“I’ve been informed that you do not wish to see me, so why are you here anyway?” Sherlock snapped, trying to rule in his emotions but failing miserably.

The worst thing he could possibly do right now was crawling to John on his knees, begging him to come back to Baker Street. No, there would definitely be none of that, so instead, anger it was.

“I...got worried...after hanging up,” John stammered, “and Mary, well, she heard and said I should check on you. So here I am. It was obviously a mistake.”

“ _Mary said.._ ,” Sherlock sneered, pushing past the ache in his throat that threatened to break his voice and give him away. “Tell me, John, do you always do what people tell you? The good Dr Watson, always in need of a leader. Is that why you replaced me so quickly after I’d jumped?”

The look of terror on John’s face hurt him more than anything. Sherlock couldn’t stand it, having him in this flat but knowing that he wouldn’t stay. It was petty, he knew, but he needed John to leave. The ache in his chest was starting to become unbearable. He wanted nothing more than to wrap himself around John, crawl into him, build a home in his chest and stay. John, however, didn’t need him like that. After a year he had gone and found himself someone new. An ordinary woman for Dr John 'I am not gay’ Watson.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Sherlock?” John shouted, anger blazing in his eyes. “I was worried, you prick! I came here because Mrs Hudson told me you looked horrible and honestly, she was right!”

John’s eyes, wide and impossibly blue, shining but not just with anger anymore. He allowed himself to look even closer and saw tears collecting in those eyes. Tears he could not possibly see falling, would not survive if they broke free.

John spoke again, voice an angry growl. “Just tell me, Sherlock. What is it you want from me? Because if you tell me to leave now, I swear to God, I will never set another foot in this flat again.”

Sherlock swallowed. His head started spinning and he felt sick, would have to be sick any second now. Mycroft was right, everyone left. John had just managed to keep up with him a little - a lot - longer than everyone else. He had been so impossibly stupid.

“Go, leave me alone,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry?” John asked, as if he hadn’t heard it perfectly clear.

Sherlock stood up to his full height and, to his eternal dismay, repeated himself. “I said, leave me alone. I need you as little as you need me. Go back to the one you _chose_ ,” he snarled, “go back to your _fiancée_ and your impossibly boring life together.”

John breathed heavily, his chest heaving, his face red. He held his hands in fists by his side.

“Alright. Fine. Fine! Bloody fucking amazing,” he cursed as he turned to leave the flat, slamming first one and then the other door shut behind him.

Sherlock flinched and barely managed to get to the bathroom in time before he bent over the sink to vomit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your continued interest! I hope you enjoyed the last few chapters despite the torture I'm putting poor Sherlock through right now. There should be one or two more chapters today and the remaining ones will follow tomorrow.


	5. Where else would I be?

John lay in his bed, wide awake with a sleeping Mary by his side and for all he knew he should be happy with his life as it was now, if only it wasn’t for Sherlock sodding Holmes.

He’d decided to walk home from Baker Street to let off some steam. It took him nearly one and a half hours but by the time he kissed Mary hello, he had most of his anger under control. Still, she’d taken one look at him and understood that something was wrong. He had tried to distract her with stories of crowded streets and tube stations and denied vehemently that his mood was in any way related to Sherlock.

When they’d gone to bed and she’d asked him, there in the security of the night, if the rumours were true, if Sherlock and him had ever been together as a couple, he almost jumped up and left. As it was, he just shook his head.

He needed to think. He knew Sherlock was by far the man who knew him best. Their life together, before the fall, did have stark resemblance to that of a couple, if you counted out the intimacy. When he’d been forced to see Sherlock jump to his death, the world collapsed around John Watson. He had grieved for over a year, closing in on himself and trying his best to avoid anyone and any place that reminded him of his dead friend. Then Mary came into his life and he allowed himself to be hopeful, to think that maybe she would fix him and she had done exactly that. He still missed Sherlock but it was easier to move on with her there, by his side. And now, now the genius was back. Making an entry only he could manage and ripping John’s heart out yet again in the process.

He’d been furious at first, then he’d felt betrayed and humiliated but beneath all that he also knew that Sherlock had once again given him exactly what he had been asking for. He had wanted him not to be dead and Sherlock had heard him. Quite literally, as it turned out. But then...

 

_I need you as little as you need me._

_Go back to the one you chose._

_Go back to your impossibly boring life together._

 

Remembering Sherlock’s words, John could have cried. As soon as he’d said that he would never return to 221B, he knew that the words bore no force, no meaning. Sherlock was like his sun. He would always gravitate towards him and he would sooner die himself than ever lose the mad genius again.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock heard his text alert go off and picked up his phone from the bedside table. It was a message from John. Hands trembling slightly, he tapped the screen to read it.

**Sherlock, can we meet?**

The relief rushing through him was so instantaneous that the detective couldn’t hold back the sigh that was pushing past his throat. Rather than showing was he felt in that moment, he tried to keep his answer bare of any emotions.

**What do you want? SH**

The answer came immediately.

**I need to talk to you.**

**Not interested. SH**

As much as he wanted to see John, this just wouldn’t do. Yes, John would come to by for an hour or two but he would always leave again. Sherlock would grow used to his presence, his smile and the warmth that radiated from it; only to be left alone later. Cold. Without John.

Another message.

**Sherlock, please. Are you home?**

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He hadn’t left the flat since he returned that night and he realised now that he’d possibly never before spent as much time in his bed as he had during the past two days.

**Where else would I be? SH**

**I don’t know. Case?**

Simple, ordinary John. Although Sherlock had tried to point out his importance to the work many times, the good doctor never truly seemed to grasp the expanse of his influence on Sherlock’s mind. Yes, he could feel his brain buzz with the ache to be occupied but right now another part of his being was being more persistent. He never would have thought it possible, but in this moment Sherlock Holmes let himself be governed by his heart.

**I’m lost without my blogger. SH**

**OK, sod this. I’m coming round.**

**Fine. SH**

As soon as he’d sent his last message, Sherlock hurried to get himself cleaned up, putting on a suit for the first time since he’d gone to see John at the restaurant. He even made tea but mainly to busy himself while his nerves bristled with the anticipation to see his friend.

“You look.. better,” John said from behind him. How had he not heard him come in?

Sherlock turned to face him and eyed the doctor quickly from head to toe.

“Hello, John. I wish I could return the compliment. You look like you haven’t slept all night.”

John raised a hand at Sherlock to stop the flow of words coming from the detective’s mouth.

“Yes. Yeah.. Sherlock, you’re right. I didn’t sleep at all,” he paused, collecting his thoughts. “I.. Sherlock, listen..” he cleared his throat but the words wouldn’t come. He looked up at Sherlock, meeting the man’s eyes with purpose. He took a step forward. And another one. Sherlock didn’t back away, so he supposed it was acceptable.

“OK, I’m trying to make this quick and, uhm, to the point because I know you find that easier to handle.” he looked down at the floor, subconsciously scratching the back of his neck, as he gathered his words. “I’m here because I want to talk about what’s happening with us. You told me yesterday that you don’t need me, that I don’t need you. We both know that’s not true, Sherlock.” He forced himself to look at his friend now and his heart jumped as he saw Sherlock’s eyes fixed on him, seemingly hanging on every word the doctor had been saying so far. He cleared his throat and took another step closer. “We’ve saved each other’s lives, more than once. I killed for you the first day we met. I do need you and even though I am with Mary now, I cannot lose you, Sherlock. Not now that you’re back. Not again.”

Sherlock could have collapsed in front of him. He wished for John’s words to be true but Mrs Hudson’s earlier words rang clear in his mind. Marriage changes people, she’d told him. Even if John forgave him, they would never be the same again. Never again just Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and Dr John Watson. From now on, they’d be Dr & Mrs Watson...and Sherlock Holmes. Eternal bachelor.

“So, yeah...I was wondering if...you know I need, uhm, for the wedding...and seeing that you’re my best friend...still..,” John was rambling now and Sherlock didn’t like one bit of what he was hearing, already guessing where this was most likely going, “Well, _hrrrm,_ I was wondering if you’d be willing to be my best man.”

Well, fuck.

Several of the things John had just said had surprised Sherlock, to say the least. John still regarded him as his best friend? Then why had he threatened to leave and never come back? Best…man? So he was supposed to hand over the most important person in his life to the woman John had chosen he’d rather spend his own life with? How on earth was he to get through a day of hollow ceremonies and empty vows?

He realised that he was starting to panic. Breathe, Sherlock. Think.

He shoved the doubts aside. For John. Yes, for John, he would. If this was what it took to keep his only true friend, he would accept it. The alternative, losing him, would be much more painful and torment him for the rest of life.

Best. Man. Sherlock started to panic all over again.

 

* * *

 

As soon as it was clear that the two friends had reconciled and that Sherlock would have a vital part in the ceremony, Mary included him in the wedding preparations. Sherlock sometimes wondered if she knew about the depth of his feelings for her future husband and did it just to spite him but he swallowed the pain that came with spending time with the blissfully happy couple, turning away when they kissed and focussed on John, on the rare minutes when Mary was not by his side and he had his friend all to himself.

They even managed to solve some smaller cases, which John seemed to be particularly grateful for. His stress levels obviously reduced after the odd chase of a criminal through the streets of London, they shared moments of silent understanding, of agreeing that, yes, they had missed this.


	6. John, I...

John felt unsure as he stood at the bottom of the stairs to 221B. He was about to start his stag night with Sherlock, who had said something about a pub crawl and revisiting old murder scenes. Trust Sherlock to organise his last proper night out as a free man and he'd make sure to include crime somewhere along the way..

That wasn't his only problem though. Yesterday after work he'd met up with Greg for a pint. They'd been talking about work for a good while before Lestrade asked about wedding nerves and the general state of things. At that point, the conversation started to spiral downhill quite rapidly. When he told the D.I. about Sherlock's involvement in the preparations and the ceremony itself, Lestrade had gaped at him and called him stupid, among other things.

"Why are you being so cruel? Fucking hell, do you really not know?"

John stared at him, mind-boggled. "Greg, what are you talking about?”

“Perhaps that’s an outside observation thing, but I’ve seen him look at you, you know - before. I’ve witnessed how much he’s changed thanks to you - for you, I think.”

John raised his hand to stop Lestrade right there. “Well, yeah.. We used to be quite close - before. I know that, and I was trying to show him that after everything he's done, I still want us to be friends.. just like before."

"Oh my God," Lestrade buried his face in his hands and groaned. Looking up and straight into the other man's eyes he told John "You're such a stupid prick! He's in love with you! Sherlock. Loves. You. And you go ahead and make him your best man! What is that if not cruel?"

John swallowed hard as his heart ached and his stomach turned. Sherlock? Loving him? How could he possibly have missed that?

And now he was about to see his friend again, incredibly nervous to do something that would make Sherlock suffer even more.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock heard John coming in through the front door and put on his Belstaff. It was better to get going right away. As much as he had looked forward to having John all to himself, he was scared about what might happen if he lost control. They were doing so well, John was contacting him frequently despite the upcoming wedding and it seemed like he was excited about the stag night. Sherlock had planned it all meticulously of course. They must not get drunk under any circumstances. A bit tipsy, maybe, but certainly not more. Who knew what Sherlock might do or say whilst being inebriated? So he'd consulted Molly about their maximum alcohol intake and metabolic rate. One could never be sure enough in matters of such importance and John was indeed of paramount  importance.

Thinking about it, why was the doctor hovering at the bottom of the stairs? He opened the door to find the smaller man looking up at him uncertainly.

"Ah, John, you're here. Come along then, let's start this evening," he said, unnaturally cheery, as he walked down the stairs and past John. He'd decided to begin their expedition through the pubs of London in Northumberland Street. A meal and a glass of wine at Angelo’s to commemorate their first evening would certainly be a good starting point.

It was, as it turned out, a good decision. Conversation between them came easily as they remembered past adventures. Sherlock allowed himself to look at John closely, enjoy his proximity and the undisturbed intimacy between two friends. And yes, the evening was going well - until John started to spike their beer with vodka shots. He'd pretended not to notice because John was enjoying himself far too much. Maybe it was good to let go a bit.

Later, when they'd both collapsed on the bottom stairs to Sherlock's flat, the detective started to regret that he'd given away control. "Dtth.. _hrrrm_ , John.. I think we thould.. Ah, blast it!” Sherlock concentrated hard on enunciating his next sentence correctly. “Look what you’ve done. I'm too drunk to speak."

John broke out in giggles. "Wait, you lisp when you're drunk? Ho- how did I not know that until now?"

The doctor was running his fingertips absent-mindedly across his stomach and turned his head to look at Sherlock. The detective's eyes were slightly bleary but seemed to take a great deal of interest in the movements of John's hands. Their eyes met and Sherlock's breathing hitched. "John, I.." he started but didn't know how to put into words what he was feeling. And then the unthinkable happened.

John struggled to sit up next to him and braced himself on his left hand, cupping Sherlock's face with the right. "Sssh, Sherlock.." he murmured as his eyes focused on the detective's lips. Sherlock swallowed hard, and wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. The sigh that escaped John’s mouth chased a shiver through his whole body and he watched, mesmerised, as John moved closer. The fingertips that had been ghosting over Sherlock's cheekbones before were now buried tightly in the hair at the back of his neck.  

When John’s lips finally made contact with his own, the detective could do nothing to hold back the small moan that escaped his mouth. John groaned in return and licked against the taller man's lips, eager to gain entry. Sherlock opened his lips and let him in, sucking on John's tongue before they gingerly explored each other’s mouths. He was just about to bury his hands in John's impossibly soft hair, when the doctor pulled away with a strangled cry. "Sherlock.. oh fuck! Oh my god.. I'm so sorry!" His voice was hoarse and his eyes wide with shock.

"John, what?" Sherlock stammered, trying to hold on to John, who was struggling to get up, but he failed and before he could fully process what is going on, John was out the door. Sherlock yelled after him but John was gone. He stood in the open door and raised the tips of his fingers to his lips, relishing in the memory of John’s kiss and bit back a sob. His other hand travelled between his legs, pressing down on the annoyingly persistent hardness there. He groaned and shut the front door, locking it before he crept up the stairs and went straight into his bedroom. He would have to wait for hours for this to go away and he so desperately wanted to feel, to allow himself pleasure. John had awoken a desire in him that he never thought he was capable of feeling.

Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt and bared his chest and stomach before undoing his flies. He cupped himself through the fabric of his briefs and moaned quietly. He needed to touch his lips again, as if to remind himself that John had kissed him there just minutes ago. It had felt so good, the intimacy of it almost overwhelming. Sherlock pushed his hand into his pants and wrapped it around his cock, stroking himself lightly as he brushed his lips against his fingertips, sucking on them lightly, willing them to be John’s. On the next upstroke he added a twist of his hand around the head his aching cock, surprised to find a copious amount of precome had already gathered there. He spread it over his length and tightened his grip as he picked up the pace. He was wanking frantically now, desperate to come. Sherlock felt the familiar tingle going down his spine and pooling in his groin. When he felt the first spurts of semen paint the skin of his quivering stomach, he moaned John’s name, fucking into his fist as he rode out his orgasm.

Once the waves of pleasure rolling through his body had settled somewhat, he pulled off his trousers and shirt, using the latter to wipe away the evidence of his indulgence. He had wanked to the memory of John kissing him, had wished for the hand around his cock to be that of his best friend. John, who was about to get married and out of his reach forever. Mycroft had been right. Sherlock wasn't made for sentiment, couldn't understand what was happening to him as he wrapped his duvet around himself tightly and buried his face in the soft pillow beneath it to stifle the sobs that were escaping freely now.

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later, John Watson was desperately trying to chase away the memories of his drunken kiss with Sherlock by burying himself in the wet heat of the woman who was supposed to become his wife in mere days. The plan folded in on itself when he didn't manage to sustain an erection. Mary had shoved him away and turned her back to him before he could even mutter a poor excuse of having had too much to drink. He laid himself down on his back, one foot pressed firmly onto the ground next to his bed to keep the room from spinning and tried to reign in the chaos that was his mind. He had kissed Sherlock! And he had enjoyed it so much that he had been almost fully hard by the time the other man had raised his hands to run his fingers through John’s hair.

Thinking back on his time in the army, he had to admit that yes, he was not one to dismiss the comfort a male body could offer but it had never been more than stolen kisses and mutual wanks in the dark corners of the base. He’d always comforted his decidedly heterosexual self with the idea of these experiences merely being a substitute for the closeness to a woman that was almost unobtainable under the circumstances. When he’d returned home from Afghanistan and felt up to it again, he’d made a point of dating women. Lots of them. Sherlock had mocked him about his inability to maintain a relationship, conveniently leaving out the fact that he himself often turned out to be the reason why his dates didn’t want to see the doctor again.

Perhaps he should have seen then how important he was to Sherlock, how much his friend cared for him and needed his company. John even had to admit that he felt at his most peaceful when he was alone with Sherlock, sitting together in front of the fire and watching crap telly. He did love Sherlock, of course he did - he just never allowed himself to realise that he felt that way about the detective. So, when he returned home and practically threw himself into Mary's arms and went down on her in order to chase away the wonderful taste of Sherlock's mouth from his tongue, all he could think about was how good it had felt to be this close to his best friend.

How could they possibly go on now? How could he live through his wedding day with his new wife sat next to him on one side and the man he'd kissed just days before on the other? Did he want go through with the wedding after this? Could he? What would it do to Sherlock? What would it do to them?

John fell into a restless sleep, dreaming of Sherlock kissing him goodbye on the top of St. Barts before he jumps. John could do nothing but watch his hard impact on the ground, torn between yelling out his pain and leaping off after his best friend. What good would a life without Sherlock be?

When he woke with a start, panting heavily from his nightmare, dawn was just breaking. The bed beside him was empty, the sheets already cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand that's all for today. Sorry to leave you hanging but the rest will come tomorrow. I promise. xx


	7. Love, always - Mary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided to break the original 7th chapter into two parts, so you're allowed to expect two more chapters today. Hope you enjoy. xx

_John,_

_by now you should have noticed that I’m gone. I will not return unless you tell me to. I did love you and I think you did see something in me, too. The feelings you had for me, though, they weren’t love, John. I have seen how you look when you are in love with someone - every time you were with Sherlock._

_You whispered his name tonight, in your sleep. As affectionately as I have never heard you say mine. Not once in all our months together._

_I think you still have to learn a lot about yourself, John Watson, and marrying you at this point in time could be a mistake. So, I’m letting you go. Should you really love me, return to me, but understand that I do not want to be a substitute for someone else. We both deserve better than that._

_Love, always,_

_Mary_

 

John stared at the letter, disbelieving. He’d spotted it on the kitchen table, neatly folded and tucked away in an envelope labeled ‘John’. Mary’s engagement ring had lain on top. He had to read it several times for the content to fully sink in, to finally understand what Mary’s resignation meant - could mean for Sherlock and him. Picking up his phone, he texted her.

 

**Mary, I’m so sorry. You’ve always seemed to know**

**me better than I do myself. Please take care of**

**yourself. And thank you. - John**

 

The reply came immediately after. It simply said "I will".

John was suddenly gripped by a sense of urgency like he had never felt it before. He dashed into the bathroom for a quick but thorough shower and took the necessary time to brush his teeth. Afterwards, he tore through his wardrobe to find a pair of jeans and his favourite jumper. The oatmeal one. He could face anything in that. Putting on his shoes and jacket, he stormed out of his house and just ran until he was able to hail a cab that would take him to Baker Street.


	8. Look at me, please

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here there be fluff.. and smut. You've earned it for sticking with me. ;) xx

Sherlock had fallen asleep briefly, the emotions wearing on him as he lay in his bed, only to wake to the realisation that he still had to prepare a speech. A speech that, given what had happened last night, had to be carefully worded so as to not cause anymore damage than the stag night had already done.

Now, he stood in front of the fireplace, addressing the skull on the mantle as he carefully tried out the sound of the words he had wrought from his brain.

_Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends,_

_when John first broached the subject of being best man I was both confused and surprised. I wish I could have explained to him in that moment that I’d never expected this request and was a little daunted in the face of it. I will, however, be forever grateful for the trust he has placed in me with this decision._

_I’m afraid John, I can’t congratulate you. All emotions, and in particular love stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things._

 

“Sherlock, stop,” a familiar voice commanded softly from behind him.

 Sherlock froze, closed his eyes and breathed. Then, ever so slowly, he turned around to face John, face the inevitable. After last night, John wouldn’t want him as his best man anymore. He wouldn’t be surprised if the doctor had already called Mike or Graham to take his place instead. Stupid, Sherlock. So very stupid. He felt tears collecting behind his eyelids, struggling to break free. When Sherlock did open his eyes, John was standing directly in front of him with his hands held out. Hesitantly, Sherlock placed his much larger hands in the doctor’s and allowed himself to release a sob at the comforting warmth of John’s touch.

“But John, I…” he started, unsure of what to say or what was expected of him now. He averted his gaze, incapable of looking into John’s beautiful, pleading eyes any longer. John did not let him. When his right hand made contact with Sherlock’s face, the taller man could feel his knees weaken with relief.

“Sherlock, hey…” John soothed him, “please, look at me.” Sherlock shook his head, so John brought his other hand up to his face as well, to turn it towards him ever so slightly, while tilting his own face into Sherlock’s field of vision. “I need you to look at me, love. Please.”

At John’s use of the endearment, Sherlock felt like his entire body was forced to kick-start, filling with warmth and an, oh, so pleasant buzz of his nerves. “John,” he sighed, turning his head enough to look at the other man. His eyes were filled with tears as well and he was running his thumbs softly over Sherlock’s cheekbones, continuing the soothing caress as he spoke. “I’m so, so sorry for everything I have put you through. I was- I was so alone when you were gone and I missed you so much, never realising what I really felt for you. All this time, Sherlock. I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock leaned his forehead against John’s, searching the truth of his words in his eyes. Finding it there, he sighed John’s name. John, who now tilted his head just a little, to brush his lips tenderly against Sherlock’s. His perfect John, who gently pulled Sherlock’s lower lip between his own before licking into his mouth.

The detective tensed briefly as he remembered Mary but John placed a finger against his lips to hush him. “Don’t. She’s gone. I’m here now. And if you’ll have me, I’d like to stay for as long as you want me.”

Sherlock sighed again, relief flooding through his entire body. Everything he ever wanted was so close, all he needed to do was reach out and take. But how to, he did not know. John must have felt his insecurity because he wrapped his arms around him tightly as he continued to cover his jaw and neck with kisses. A small moan escaped Sherlock’s throat and he allowed himself to luxuriate in the closeness of John, leaning his face again the other man’s shoulder while he breathed in his scent.

“John, I love you,” he whispered against the soft skin beneath his lips and felt John’s pulse jump. He didn’t care if now was too early to say it, he’d been waiting to tell John how he felt for such a long time, never thinking that he’d ever be allowed to actually do so. He didn’t care that John didn’t say it back right away. He was here now, so close, touching and kissing him, showing how he felt with his actions, rather than with his words.

“Oh, Sherlock,” he sighed against the detective’s ear, “you precious thing. Please, let me take care of you. Let me love you.”

Sherlock shivered in response and let himself be lead into his bedroom. Suddenly starting to feel nervous, he stood in front of his bed, unsure of what to do. John closed the door and wrapped his arms around him again. “We don’t have to do anything, sweetheart. Let’s just get some of these clothes out of the way, crawl under the covers and kiss until our lips are numb, yeah?” he sought out Sherlock’s gaze. “Would you like that?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed. “Yes, John. I would like that very much.”

 

John’s smile could have lit the whole of London. With slightly trembling hands, the doctor opened his jeans to pull them off and his jumper joined them on the floor soon after. Standing in front of Sherlock, he brushed the dressing gown off the beloved man’s shoulders and pressed a firm kiss to his sternum. Sherlock let himself be pushed onto the bed and watched as John pulled off his socks and climbed into bed with him.

There was no need for words as Sherlock sank into John’s open arms and let himself be held. He enjoyed the closeness of John’s body to his, relished in the feeling of John’s lips against his forehead, his hands stroking both his hair and back. He couldn’t remember a time in his life when he’d been so at ease. Perhaps he never had been before. Sherlock wanted - needed to get closer to John. Slowly, he started to run his fingertips over John’s far side, stomach and chest. He tilted his head up to mouth at John’s neck before seeking his lips, desperately longing to kiss him again.

Minutes, maybe hours were passed like that and he loved every single touch, kiss, lick, even bite that John so willingly provided. Craving even more still, Sherlock kissed his way down John’s throat and along his sternum, before directing his caresses towards his lover’s chest and nipples. At first, he tested the texture and sensitivity of the small, already hard nubs with the tip of his tongue. The response it drew from John encouraged him to gently suck one into his mouth. The shiver that ran through John’s body was delicious, mesmerising. He did it again and again.

Becoming very aware of his own arousal, Sherlock shifted his upper leg between John’s, eager to feel the warmth of that firm body against his crotch. At the first thrust, John’s breathing stopped. Worried that he’d gone too far, too soon, Sherlock tried to move away but John surprised him yet again. Letting out a deep groan, John dragged the taller man on top of himself, his knees falling apart readily to give Sherlock room between his legs. The second he felt John’s erection press against his own, Sherlock thought he would pass out from the sheer pleasure of it. They both groaned in unison, sighing into each other’s mouths as their movements became frantic.

_More. More, still._ Sherlock’s mind screamed at him, needing John, wanting more. Always more. He released his grip on John’s hair to ease one hand down and between their bodies, hurriedly trying to get the remaining fabric out of the way. John laughed and looked at him fondly, pushing Sherlock away gently to give them both room to undress. He disposed of his shirt and pants quickly, only to find Sherlock still fully dressed and looking at his lover’s erection with an interest that he normally reserved to a case 10 crime scene. Smiling fondly, he moved his hands under the hem of Sherlock’s shirt, slowly pushing it up and over his head. He leaned forward to cover his neck and left shoulder with open-mouthed kisses, while running his hands over Sherlock’s back.

“Gorgeous,” he breathed against moist skin, eliciting a moan from his lover, “Sherlock, you’re so beautiful.”

Sherlock rested his head on John’s shoulder, bathing in tenderness and love, soaking it in, allowing himself to be touched. “John, I want you so much,” he said, wrapping his arms around the smaller man’s torso.

John whispered his name and lay back down, dragging Sherlock with him. He cupped the perfect cheeks of Sherlock’s arse with his hands and pressed his lover down against his groin. Sherlock, eager to feel skin on skin everywhere, brought John’s hands underneath his pajama bottoms, urging him to push them down. John complied and after a bit of shuffling around they were finally gloriously naked. Sherlock moved to lie back down between John’s legs but thought better of it, taking advantage of having the subject of his desires spread out under him, pliant and oh so very naked. He kissed John’s lips, moaning as the tip of his cock caught on the heavy sac of John’s testicles.

John was already breathing heavily by then, his skin flushed and lovely as Sherlock moved from his chest down over his stomach, biting gently at the tender skin where body meets leg. Sherlock could not resist the temptation of burying his nose in the patch of dark blond hair in front of him, breathing in deeply to memorise the scent of John where it was at its most intense. Hesitantly, he placed a soft kiss to the base of John’s cock. It was perfect, average in length but thick and heavy against his palm as he weighed it in his hand. John moaned, his legs writhing on the bed as Sherlock sucked his balls into his mouth one after the other, letting each one go with a lewd pop. Looking up, Sherlock found John’s eyes following his actions intently. Feeling encouraged, he offered a small smile before dragging his tongue along the underside of John’s shaft and, lifting it off of John’s belly, took the head into his mouth.

“Ooooh fuuuuck,” John groaned, his back arching off the bed as Sherlock wrapped his lips around him and sucked. Sherlock was using his right hand to make up for the skin that his mouth couldn’t cover and his tongue was first fluttering against John’s frenulum, then teasing the slit that was already leaking precome and John was certain he would lose his mind any second now. “Sherlock.. Christ! Good, so fucking good!”

Sherlock enjoyed this more than he’d ever deemed possible. The feeling of John’s length in his mouth, the taste on his tongue; it was glorious. Still, Sherlock felt like he needed more. He pulled off, much to John’s dismay, it seemed, and kissed his way back up his lover’s body to lie back down between his legs. Both gasping at the renewed contact of their erections, they were grinding against each other lazily, not chasing their orgasms but still trying to keep the pleasure at its current level.

Sherlock buried his face in the crook of John’s neck, knowing he couldn’t look at him while making his request. He felt uncertain, vulnerable even, although he knew that he could trust his friend. “John,” he pleaded, “you’re not close enough yet. Never close enough.”

John tried to turn his head to look at him but found he couldn’t. He wrapped an assuring hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck instead, gently teasing the tips of his fingers through his curls. “Baby, if you’re asking what I think you’re asking.. I need you to tell me what it is you need me to do.”

Sherlock huffed and, after a moment, lifted his head to look at John, who pulled the hand on the back of his neck forward to gently cup his face. “Go on, love. Tell me.”

Sherlock sighed and rested his forehead against John’s, aligning their noses as he looked into his lover’s eyes and spoke. “I want you inside me, John.”


	9. I want...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, what now? Yes, correct. More smut. Because I love how they love each other.

When John woke up, Sherlock was still fast asleep and sprawled all over him. He nuzzled at the black curls and lazily stroked the taller man’s back until he could no longer ignore the call of nature. Extracting himself from Sherlock’s grip as slowly as possible, he got out of bed and padded into the bathroom. He relieved himself and decided to brush his teeth before joining his lover back in bed, hoping for a lazy morning. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, he spotted several bruises along his neck and chest that Sherlock had seemed to take the utmost pleasure in putting there last night. He smiled at himself and proceeded to clean his teeth, startling slightly as the bathroom door opened and Sherlock entered the room, gloriously naked and perfectly disheveled. I did that, John thought.

Upon waking up, Sherlock found the bed empty. Listening closely, he heard John puttering about in the bathroom. He stretched and felt the pressure of his bladder, deciding that he might as well join John in the room next door. He found his lover standing in front of the sink, brushing his teeth and looking so incredibly sexy that he felt his mouth watering and his cock twitch. “Must. Piss. First.” he told himself as he pushed past John to take care of one urge before giving in to the other. He could, however, not refrain from dropping a kiss on the other man’s shoulder and caught John’s responding smile in the mirror.

“Are we going back to bed?” he asked when he came to stand next to John, who had just cleaned himself up, at the sink to wash his hands.

“I thought so,” John responded, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s arm. “Or would you rather not?”

Sherlock thought of vocalising an answer but decided against it. Placing his hands on John’s hips, he turned the smaller man around a bit, so they were facing each other and, keeping his gaze locked on John’s eyes, dropped to his knees.

“Ahhhh! Chriiiist!” John groaned, as Sherlock took him into his mouth, covering almost his entire length. His knees buckled and he put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders for support. Sherlock looked back up and let himself be pushed off gently. John used his right hand to tip Sherlock’s head back, so he could kiss his mouth passionately, burying his tongue deeply within him as he ran his hands through Sherlock’s curls. They moaned in unison and when John moved to stand up straight again, Sherlock kissed down his stomach to take John into his mouth once again. He loved the weight of it on his tongue, loved tasting John.

“God, Sherlock,” the doctor gasped, “I need you.. bed.. right now.”

Sherlock released him instantly, grabbing his lover by the hand and pulling him into the bathroom so hurriedly, that John could only stumble after him. In the bedroom, Sherlock crawled on top of the bed, legs spread wide, presenting himself to John on all fours, arse pushed up in the air. John groaned at the sight and the needy sound sent a shiver through Sherlock’s body. John crawled on top of the bed behind Sherlock, pushing him further onto the mattress with his thighs pressing against the other man’s legs.

Sherlock felt John sinking down on the bed, and moaned with anticipation at what he knew would happen next. John was cupping his cheeks with both hands and spread them apart. Sherlock gasped at the feeling of the cold morning air brushing over the sensitive skin of his cleft but it didn’t feel cold for long. When John dove in to run his flattened tongue over him from behind his balls up to the top of his arse, Sherlock almost screamed with pleasure.

John started to lick and suck at him in earnest and Sherlock felt so overcome that he pulled the nearest pillow to his mouth to bite down on it. He felt John licking a wet stripe from his arse all the way up to his neck in one swift movement and shuddered with the pure pleasure of it. A moan escaped him as John fit his erection between Sherlock’s buttocks and started grinding his hips against the slick skin.

“That’s it, baby,” John growled into his ear, “let me hear those gorgeous sounds you’re making.”

Sherlock groaned and canted his hips to better meet John’s thrusts.

“John,” he moaned, “I want to taste you again.”

He felt his lover shudder above him and then the warmth and weight of John’s body was gone. He felt the mattress dip and shift as John moved up to the other side of the bed, coming to rest beside Sherlock’s face. The detective took him back into his mouth eagerly, lapping away at the tip of John’s cock and rolling his balls in the palm of his right hand. He heard John release a particularly long moan and then felt the man shift sideways, probably to retrieve the bottle of lube from the bedside table.

The tell-tale click of the lid proved him right and he felt his own erection pulsing with need. John was no doubt slicking up his fingers right now and a few seconds later, Sherlock felt him lean over his back and then gently pushing against his entrance first with one, then two fingers until Sherlock was relaxed enough for them to able to slip inside. John shuddered as Sherlock moaned around him. They stayed like this for a few minutes longer, until John drew back. Sherlock moved to lie down on his back as quickly as he could, spreading his legs for John to take his place between them. The doctor leaned down to kiss him hungrily, stroking at Sherlock’s side with his left hand, trying to calm him down a bit.

Sherlock would have none of it and crossed his ankles over the small of John’s back, pulling him down on top of himself. “I want you, John,” he whispered into his ear. “Please.”

John stilled momentarily, remembering last night but tried to shove the thought aside. Following Sherlock’s plea to penetrate him, he’d barely managed to breach his lover before he was coming violently and even though Sherlock seemed to be completely fine with it, John felt humiliation rising within him even at the memory.

“John,” Sherlock scolded, “stop that.” He slapped John’s arse by way of lighting up the mood and scrambled away from under him, turning on his stomach to once again put his arse on display. He knew how much John loved it.

“I want you inside me, John,” he whispered needily and that seemed to do the trick. John moaned and pressed kisses to Sherlock’s back while sneaking his slick fingers back between his cheeks, gently scissoring him open with two fingers before adding a third. He pressed in deep and Sherlock started to writhe on the bed, trying to create friction against his aching cock.

Looking down on the beautiful, desperate creature beneath him, John decided that this time, he would make it last. This time, Sherlock would come with John still seated inside him. He so desperately wanted to feel the detective clench around him as the waves of pleasure rippled through his body. Even though he resented the idea of having a barrier of any sort between Sherlock and himself, John retrieved a condom from the bedside table and rolled it onto himself with trembling hands. Sherlock turned his upper body around to rest on his left shoulder and looked at John questioningly.

“It’ll help me last longer,” he offered by way of explanation and Sherlock nodded in understanding. Remaining in his position, Sherlock extended his arm to invite John in, letting his head fall back on the shoulder of his other arm as he felt the tip of John’s cock pressing against his hole.

John understood the invitation and leaned down over Sherlock’s side, gently nipping at his lower lip as he slowly but steadily pushed into his lover’s body. Sherlock almost whimpered with the sensation of John spreading him wide. Their movements remained slow and tentative; shallow, grinding thrusts of John’s hips against Sherlock once he was fully seated. They continued to kiss, their tongues dancing around each other between hungry nips at the other’s lips until Sherlock was getting frantic beneath him, pressing up on all fours to make space for himself to turn around.

John let him withdraw for the briefest moment, staring in wonder at the perfect man moving beneath him, who laid himself out so openly for John to take. He looked into Sherlock’s eyes, seeing nothing but the deepest affection there. Slowly, he pushed into him again, shuddering at the tight heat enveloping his cock. “God, Sherlock, you feel so good!”

Holding onto Sherlock’s knees, he started to thrust into him in earnest, almost losing it as he watched Sherlock taking himself in hand, and pulling at his erection almost furiously. Panting heavily, Sherlock let go of himself after a moment, embracing John to pull him down onto his chest with an urgency that made John’s vision blur. They resumed kissing until Sherlock threw his head back in ecstasy, baring his throat for John to lick and suck at.

They clung to each other tightly, Sherlock whispering I love you into John’s ear over and over again while the doctor gripped the edge of the mattress, fucking into Sherlock with abandon. Sherlock held his hips tightly, trying to slow John down. Confused, John sought his gaze. “What’s wrong?” he rasped, his voice thick with arousal.

“Nothing,” Sherlock managed to pant. “Ooooh, John, just, slow down. I’m about to come and I don’t want to yet.” John groaned, leaning all the way back until he was lying on the bed, still tightly seated within Sherlock and one of the detective’s legs sprawled across his torso. They lay like that for a moment, both panting heavily, feeling the connection between their bodies until Sherlock let John’s erection slip out of his body in favour of straddling his lover’s lap. Sinking down on him carefully, Sherlock leaned back on his left arm to grind his hips against John in circles, stroking himself hard with his other hand.

John watched his lover, mesmerised by the loss of control evident in the body above him. It seemed so incredible, seeing Sherlock giving in to pleasure like that and he silently begged to be allowed to see this for the rest of his life. Feeling the heat of his impending orgasm pool in his groin, John started to thrust up and into Sherlock, tipping the other man over the edge. He watched in sheer amazement as Sherlock shuddered above him and soon after felt hot spurts of come land on his stomach. The sensation of Sherlock clenching around him was too much to bear for John, who’d been fighting hard to hold out for as long as possible.

 

Later, when they were both lying in each other’s arms after hastily cleaning themselves up with some tissues, John swore that he’d never had a more intense orgasm in his life. They kissed and touched each other languidly until they both felt their caresses getting slower, standing on the brink of sleep and ready to tumble.

John raised his hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek and the detective looked at him through heavy eyelids. “I love you, baby. So very much.” Sherlock sighed contently and drifted off to sleep. John would have liked nothing more than to follow his example but his throat was uncomfortably dry. For the second time in the course of an hour, John extracted himself carefully from beneath Sherlock’s body.

Yawning, he walked into the kitchen and almost died from shock.

“Ah, good morning, John. I see my brother’s habits are already rubbing off on you. No pun intended,” Mycroft smirked from his spot in Sherlock’s armchair. It was a disturbing sight. John scrambled to cover himself with his hands but then thought better of it. Turning his bare backside towards the older Holmes brother, he fetched himself a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water. Trusting that a kitchen chair would be enough to cover the most important bits, he turned around to face Mycroft again. “Anything I can help you with?”

“I see that my brother and you have overcome your recent disagreements. Please accept my sincere congratulations. It would be most kind if you would pass them on to Sherlock as well.”

John nodded by way of saying thank you. Gulping down the rest of his water, he turned to walk back towards the bedroom.

“John,” Mycroft called after him, annoyance evident in his voice. John turned around fully and Mycroft flinched, averting his gaze with a pained sigh. He started to understand why Sherlock loved to irritate his brother. It was most satisfying indeed. Standing up, Mycroft went on in his usual commanding tone. “Once you’re quite finished exploiting Sherlock’s newfound interest for sex and sentiment, I require his assistance in matters of national importance.”

John closed the distance between Mycroft and himself with a few determined strides. He didn’t care if he was staring down his lover’s older brother wearing nothing but his skin but the anger within him was rising uncontrollably. Pressing his outstretched index finger against Mycroft’s sternum, he slowly pushed him backwards toward the door as he spoke.

“You listen to me, Mycroft Holmes, and you better listen bloody good. Regardless of whatever bullshit you’ve been feeding his genius brain with, Sherlock is the most sensitive human being I have ever come across and I will cherish him for the rest of my life. I have never loved anyone like I love him and if you think that I will let your incompetence to carry out a job on your own get between me and shagging him senseless EVER you’re perhaps not as intelligent as you think. Although I understand.. sentiment really isn’t your strong suit, is it?”

With that he slammed the door shut in Mycroft’s beyond irritated face and released the chuckle that wanted to escape his chest. He turned around to see Sherlock leaning against the frame of the open bedroom door. He was glowing with happiness and pride.

Sherlock stretched out his hands. “Come on, John. Keep your word. Shag me senseless.”

And John followed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I loved writing it. Leave me a comment if you like, I'd love to know your thoughts. xx


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